


In Your Wildest Dreams

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Paris (City), Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 14:18:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3293540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was what grief did to you, Sara knew. It played tricks on your mind. But if it wasn’t Neal, then who could it be? Who else would send her an anonymous packet detailing all the ways someone could knock over the Louvre?</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Your Wildest Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is, FINALLY. I've been working on this since two days after the finale. 
> 
> SPOILERS for the series finale, of course. Title from the Taylor Swift song of the same name.
> 
> Thanks to Fuzzyboo for the beta!

Neal had always dreamed of living in Paris. He knew it was a cliché, but he had never cared. Mozzie wanted his island, and Kate had wanted somewhere warm with a beach. Neal had always wanted Paris. He’d longed for walks along the Seine, hours spent exploring the Louvre, leisurely breakfasts on a balcony with a view of Notre Dame. And now, with no one looking for him, he had all the time in the world. 

It was horrible. 

He’d known that burning his life in New York would hurt. Even when the anklet had chafed, he’d loved his life there: Sunday brunches with June and Mozzie, Wednesday night dinners with El and Peter, even Monday mornings at the office. He hadn’t wanted to give it up, and he’d known it would sting, but he hadn’t known how much until it was too late to go back. Not that he would have even if he had known. 

It had been the only way out. But _damn_ , it hurt. He was no stranger to loneliness, but this was different somehow. He’d built a family in New York, and he grieved that loss. And it hurt more than he had ever expected to imagine the people he loved grieving for him. He could only hope that Moz wouldn’t withdraw entirely, that he’d let Peter and El and June take care of him. 

In the deepest, darkest hours of the night, he imagined how he might get word to them. Just a small sign. But he knew that even if it hurt them now to think he was dead, in the long run it was better. He was too dangerous, and not only because of the Pink Panthers. Keller wasn’t the only landmine in his past. With the baby on the way, it was better for him to be out of the picture - and to stay out, no matter how tempting it might be to contact Peter once the Panthers were put away. 

For the first six weeks, Neal considered himself retired. He had accounts that even Mozzie hadn’t known about, and he drew on them to set himself up in a small but very comfortable apartment. His time on the anklet had given him practice in living well but not extravagantly, and as long as he avoided buying any islands, his money would last him a long time. He would be a gentleman of leisure.

It was an ironclad plan, except it turned out that leisure was boring. Neal had never really been built for boring. Boredom in prison had meant depression, and Neal knew himself well enough to see the signs that he was heading that way again. Which was how, less than two months after arriving in Paris, he found himself prowling around the Louvre at two in the morning. He’d already worked out the security guards’ patterns, and he knew none of them would be around this side of the building for another ten minutes.

It would be a real challenge, Neal thought. Especially since he would be doing it on his own. He’d always relied on Mozzie’s technical know-how and professional paranoia. He could make new contacts, he supposed, but the art crime world was small, and there was too much of a chance he’d be recognized. It would be hard, and if he was caught, the prison the French would throw him in would make Sing Sing look like the Four Seasons. But he was just so _bored_ , and the Louvre was there. Taunting him. 

It had been years since anyone had successfully hit the Louvre. Most criminals didn’t even try. It was the sort of thing people talked about when they were four drinks in, but it was the _Louvre_. You’d have to be crazy. You’d have to have nothing left to lose. 

Neal turned and walked away, seconds before the guard was scheduled to round the corner and see him. Plans were already turning in his head. 

***

The Sterling-Bosch offices were still quiet when Sara arrived just after six-thirty in the morning. It was early even by her standards, but she had a video call with Asia scheduled for seven. She settled herself at her desk with her coffee, signed into the video conferencing service, and checked her email. 

There were a number of work-related emails, which she clicked through idly, flagging the ones she would have to deal with later. But at the top, there was one from Elizabeth Burke. Sara frowned guiltily. She’d meant to stay in better touch with the Burkes than she had. She’d sent flowers and a substantial box of things from their Amazon Wish List when little Neal was born, but actual contact had been sparse. 

_Hi Sara,_

_How are you? It’s been a while since we heard from you. I thought I’d send you a few pictures of Neal and give you a bit of an update on things here. He’s gotten so big! Everyone told me they grow fast, but sometimes I think I can actually see it from one day to the next. And he’s so charming, he reminds me of his namesake. I think we might be in trouble when he gets older._

_I’m doing well - very glad to not be pregnant anymore! Those last three months weren’t much fun. Everyone kept telling me I was glowing, but I think it was mostly just sweat. Peter is doing better. Neal keeps us both really busy, and that’s been good for him. He said to thank you for recommending Dr. Renier. It took him a few months to pick up the phone and make an appointment, but we’re both glad that he did. He still has moments - we both do - when it hits us out of nowhere, but that’s part of it, I suppose._

_We haven’t seen Mozzie at all since the funeral. I left a voicemail for him when the baby was born, and he sent us gluten free, artisanal baby formula (I didn’t even know they_ made _artisanal formula) and a very odd mobile that Peter thinks might also be a fractal. But other than that, we haven’t seen him. I think he’s still in New York, but I could be wrong._

_Let us know how things are with you. Traveling is a little hard for us right now, but if you get some time we’d love to see you._

_Best,  
Elizabeth_

The photos she’d attached of little Neal were unbearably cute. He had huge dark eyes - brown, not blue - and a mischievous smile. He had El’s dimples and Peter’s nose. 

Sara leaned back in her chair, swallowing hard. She signed out of the video conferencing application before allowing herself to slump forward over her desk, covering her face with her hands. Tears prickled at the backs of her eyes, and her throat felt tight. She hadn’t meant to let her friendship with the Burkes go, but it was so much easier to get through the day without being reminded of Neal. 

The truth, which Sara admitted only reluctantly to herself, was that she’d thought she and Neal would get another chance, once the anklet was off. She hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking about it, but it had always been there, lurking in the back of her mind. And then Peter had called her, waking her out of a sound sleep to tell her that Neal was dead, and whatever chances she might have had with him were dead, too. She’d gone to New York for the funeral, but being there was too hard. She’d known when she left that it would be a long time before she went back. 

It wasn’t quite seven o’clock, so she gave herself a few minutes to just sit and be still with her grief. She’d had enough practice at it to know that if she repressed it all the time, it would surface just when it was least convenient. But eventually she had to sit up, dry her eyes, and check that her mascara hadn’t run. It was seven o’clock by then, and she signed back onto the video conference just as the last member of the Asia team joined them. 

“Good evening,” she said, pasting on a bright, professional smile. “How is everyone today?”

Even having come in at six-thirty, it was nearly seven by the time Sara finally left the office that evening. She picked up Indian take-out on her way home and then stopped by Oddbins to pick up a bottle of wine to go with it. It was drizzling lightly but not very cold as she walked home from her Tube stop; spring had arrived in the last few days, and Sara thought it might be safe to put away the warmest of her winter coats. 

There was a pile of mail waiting for her when she arrived home. She took it with her into the kitchen and sorted through it while she ate her curry. It was mostly junk, but she spent a minute or two paging through the Marks & Spencer ad before tossing it.

There was one larger package, which she saved for last. There was no return address, and it was postmarked Paris. Sara frowned, wondering who she knew who’d been to Paris recently. No one came to mind, and the handwriting on the front of the package didn’t ring a bell. She shook it, but nothing inside rattled; it was heavy and felt like it might contain a book. She decided she was being overly cautious. It had been nearly two years now since she’d had any active cases, and she didn’t think anyone would have any interest in hurting her. She opened it up and pulled out the contents. 

It wasn’t a book. It was a stack of paper about half an inch thick with no note and no explanation of any kind. The top sheet was the blueprint of a building, and it took Sara several seconds of staring at it to realize she was looking at a diagram of the Louvre. She pushed it aside to look at the next page and her eyebrows shot up. 

It was a detailed description of the Louvre’s security, with an emphasis on all the weak spots. Security rotations that were too predictable, an outdated motion sensor system, external cameras that were easily tampered with. Whoever had written the evaluation had concluded that the roof was the building’s weakest point, and while it would be difficult to lift a frame, the paintings were vulnerable to a slash-and-grab. 

_At the moment, the most significant security advantage the Louvre has is its reputation as being hard-to-hit,_ the report read. _But that reputation won’t last if the museum doesn’t get a significant security upgrade._

The report was thorough, with diagrams of the museum and the roof, security patterns, all major systems and how they might be undermined, and a list of major targets. Sara read it all, and then she read it again, while her curry grew cold. Then she sat in her dimly lit kitchen, staring out the window. 

It was impossible. The funeral hadn’t been open-casket, but Peter and Mozzie had both seen the body. Neal was gone, and believing that he had sent her this report was wishful thinking. The first few months, she’d seen him in crowds everywhere she’d gone in London. Any man with dark hair, a slim build, and a hat morphed into Neal. This was just like that. This was what grief did to you: it played tricks on your mind. She knew that. 

But if it wasn’t Neal, she thought, then who could it be? Who else would send her an anonymous packet detailing all the ways someone could knock over the Louvre? She couldn’t think of anyone. This wasn’t Mozzie’s style at all. 

She opened her laptop and sent an email to Winston Bosch, asking for a phone call at his earliest convenience. Sterling-Bosch insured a number of works in the Louvre, and he would have the contacts to make sure this report landed in the right hands. Then she hesitated, staring at Elizabeth’s email from that morning. She had to respond, but she had no idea what to say. 

_Hi Elizabeth,_ she finally wrote. 

_Thanks for writing. Sorry I haven’t been in touch. The pictures are adorable! I would love to meet Neal someday. But I’m not sure that a trip to New York is in my immediate future. Things are very busy here. Maybe next year._

_I’m glad Peter is seeing Dr. Renier. She helped me a lot after my parents died. Please tell her hello for me._

_Best,  
Sara_

It was too short, Sara knew. But it was all she could manage right then. She hit send and closed the computer. 

***

The anonymous report made big waves at Sterling-Bosch. About two hours after Sara sent a digitized version to Bosch, she found herself pulled into a video conference call with him and André Berger, the director of security for the Louvre. 

“This report is preposterous,” Berger said, skipping the pleasantries entirely. “And for you to have such a report commissioned is insulting. The Louvre takes its security very seriously.”

“We don’t doubt that,” Sara said. “And we didn’t have the report commissioned.”

“Then where did it come from?” Berger demanded. 

“We don’t know,” Bosch said. “It was sent anonymously to Ms. Ellis.”

“By whom?” Berger demanded. 

“Well, if we knew that it wouldn’t be anonymous, would it?” Sara couldn’t help saying. Bosch cut her a glare over the video, and she sighed. “Monsieur Berger, we mean no disrespect. Perhaps there is no validity to the claims of the report. But Sterling-Bosch has millions of dollars in insured pieces in the Louvre, and if any of it is true, then it is something that we would like to see addressed. And something you would also like to see addressed, I’m sure.”

Berger frowned. “The report is preposterous,” he repeated. 

“Is it?” Sara asked. “I did some digging this morning, and it seems that it’s been over ten years since there was a major security overhaul at the Louvre. I’m sure your system was the very best that money could buy in 2004, but there’s a lot of new technology available now, and criminals are getting more tech savvy all the time.” 

“It’s worked just fine,” Berger snapped. 

“For now,” Sara replied mildly. “But someone has been poking around in your system, and no one noticed him. Frankly, you’re lucky that it turned out to be someone who wanted to tell you where the weak points are. It could just as easily have been someone out to steal _The Mona Lisa_.” She leaned forward, making sure to keep her eyes on her laptop’s camera to maintain eye contact. “Imagine being head of security when _The Mona Lisa_ goes missing, Monsieur Berger.”

By the pained look on his face, he was imagining it in vivid detail. “Fine,” he said stiffly. “We will undertake an immediate audit of our security system. But I want to know where the report came from. As you say, someone has been poking around in our system, and I want to know who it is.”

“We can do that,” Bosch said. “In fact, Ms. Ellis will see to it personally.”

“Very good,” Berger said. “I look forward to meeting you, Ms. Ellis.”

“Yes, likewise,” Sara said, forcing a smile. _That_ , she had not seen coming. 

Berger wrung a promise from Sara to contact him with her travel plans once they were cemented, then disconnected. Sara raised an eyebrow at Bosch. “I’ll see to it personally, will I?”

Bosch shrugged. “I thought you’d want to, considering whoever did this chose you to receive it. At your home address, no less.”

Sara pursed her lips. “That is true.”

“With anyone else I’d ask if they wanted some extra security,” Bosch said, “but I think I know what your answer will be.”

Sara shook her head. She did miss her baton sometimes. It was illegal in Europe. But it certainly wasn’t the only trick up her sleeve. “I can protect myself. And having a security entourage would make it hard to go about figuring out who sent it very stealthily.”

Bosch nodded. “I thought as much. And you really have no idea who it might be?”

Sara sighed. “A year ago, I’d have said yes, without a doubt.”

“A year ago?” Bosch repeated. “Why then and not now?”

It was easier, just then, to look at the camera instead of Bosch’s face on the screen. “Because a year ago, Neal Caffrey was still alive.”

Bosch was silent for a moment. “Ah,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Sara said. She shrugged. “So I really have no idea who it might have been. But I’ll do my best to find out.”

“Thank you. I have the utmost faith in you. You always were my best investigator.”

“Thank you,” Sara said, quietly pleased at the compliment. “I’ll check-in regularly.”

“I look forward to it,” Bosch said, and signed off. 

Sara leaned back in her chair. There was a lot to do; she had promised both Berger and Bosch that she would leave for Paris the next day, and there were travel arrangements to be made. She had to go home and pack and consider how she was going to approach the search. 

She itched to pick up the phone and call Peter. Not because he could help - Paris was well outside the FBI’s jurisdiction - but because he would have found the case interesting. But she hadn’t said anything in her email to El for a reason. When the case was over, perhaps she could share it with Peter. But she knew that he had to have the same thoughts she did in the small hours of the morning when reality seemed somehow more malleable: that perhaps Neal wasn’t really gone. In the light of day, she knew that wasn’t true. But because Neal was Neal and had always been just a little bit magic, she wondered. Peter had never said so to her, but he had to wonder, too. And she couldn’t do anything that might stoke the fire of that false hope. 

***

It had been a long time since Sara had had a vacation. This wasn’t exactly a vacation, but it felt a little like one as she settled into her first-class seat on the EuroStar the next morning. She had things to do, but at least she’d be doing them outside of her normal routine in London. Leaving that routine behind was more of a relief than she’d thought it would be; it wasn’t that there was anything _wrong_ with it, exactly, she thought, staring out the window as the train eased away from Waterloo Station. But there wasn’t anything right with it, either. There was very little to look forward to on any given day. 

And now - she had a one-way ticket to Paris. She was determined to figure out who had sent her the report on the Louvre, and she had the feeling she was going to get pulled into consulting on the security upgrades, but that would leave her with some time to herself. Time to enjoy a few of the smaller museums, eat in tiny bistros, and perhaps buy a new dress from one of the city’s many hidden boutiques. 

She and Neal had talked about it once, lying in bed in his apartment on a gray, rainy morning. He’d known Paris better than she did, and he’d told her about all the places he’d take her once the anklet was off and they could go. He’d wanted to take an apartment in the Montmartre and spend a month doing nothing but exploring the city. She couldn’t really imagine an entire month of leisure, but she’d liked the idea.

This wasn’t going to be that trip, she reminded herself firmly, pulling her laptop out of her bag to work. There was no charming artist’s apartment in the Montmartre waiting for her, but rather a room at the Marriot on the Champs-Élysées. She had work to do. 

By the time her train arrived in Paris, Sara had a plan. She checked into her hotel and dropped off her things, freshening up a bit before heading out. It wasn’t yet tourist season, but there were still plenty of people out and about; it took her longer than it should have to walk the length of the boulevard to the Louvre. Berger had told her to use a side entrance and ask for him when she arrived. 

He didn’t keep her waiting. “Madame Ellis, _bienvenue_ ,” he said, shaking her hand. They had spoken English on the call the night before, but she had known going into this that she would probably have to call her on rusty but serviceable French. “How was the trip?”

“Easy,” she replied in French. “ _Merci_.”

“We’ve already begun contacting security experts in the area,” he said, leading her down the hall. “We’re not spreading the report around, but we are asking them to concentrate their efforts on the roof and on the other aspects of the system that the report says are particularly troublesome.”

She nodded. “ _C’est bon._ I’m happy to help with anything you might need. I’m no expert, but I do know a lot about security and what is available on the market right now. We often provide our best customers with security consultations.”

Berger nodded. “ _Merci._ ” He gestured her into a small office. “And how do you intend to proceed with your own investigation?”

“I would like to start by speaking with your nighttime security guards,” she said, seating herself before the desk. “I think that whoever wrote the report must have spent a lot of time here, perhaps during business hours but most likely at night. The guards might have seen something.”

“That can be arranged,” Berger said. “And if they haven’t?”

“Then I will need to start reviewing your security logs,” she said. “But I want to start with the interviews.” She hoped that that would turn up something. She couldn’t believe that someone could spend that much time prowling the Louvre and not get caught. Not even Neal - well, perhaps Neal. But even Neal might have been noticed eventually, he would just have been able to charm his way out of it. 

There were a few hours still before the museum closed and the nighttime security guards came on. Berger gave Sara a pass for the museum, and she went to get lunch in the café before heading into the galleries. She had the list of “Likely Targets” with her, and she visited them one by one. Whoever it was must have visited during the day as well, she reflected as she waited patiently to get to the front of the crowd in front of the _Mona Lisa_. Unless he - _or she_ , she corrected herself - had successfully broken in at night without tripping any of the alarms. That seemed unlikely, but not impossible. Still, at some point they had stood where she was standing now. 

It was too bad, she thought, that the Louvre didn’t keep a detailed log of everyone who visited. Credit card receipts would help, but anyone who had paid their admissions fee in cash - or who had visited on one of the free days - would be omitted. And what would she be looking for, anyway? It didn’t seem all that likely that a known criminal would sign in with his own name. 

_Handwriting_ , she thought, and then immediately quashed the idea. It was probably for the best that she couldn’t comb through a log-book of the last six months of visits, looking for Neal’s distinctive handwriting. That way lay madness and a colossal waste of time. She couldn’t go through this investigation looking for Neal around every corner. Neal was dead. It was time to accept that. 

The guards had been asked to come in half an hour early to speak with her. None of them seemed to know anything. No, they hadn’t seen anyone hanging around on a regular basis. They’d chased off some kids and some vagrants in the last few months, but no one unusual and they hadn’t seen the same person more than once, as far as they could recall. Berger had given Sara copies of the security logs, and she went through individual incidents with the guards, hoping that something might pop out. But nothing did. 

“Any luck?” Berger asked when Sara appeared in his office doorway. He looked like he was packing up for the night. 

“No,” she said. Her head ached from speaking French all day. “But I still have to speak to the ones who weren’t on duty tonight.” She held up her copies of the logs. “Do you mind if I take these back to the hotel with me?” 

Berger looked reluctant. “I suppose not. But don’t lose them.”

“I won’t,” she assured him. “Thank you. _Bonne nuit._ ”

“ _Bonne nuit_ ,” he replied. 

Sara walked slowly back to her hotel. Spring had barely arrived in London, but it was well underway here. The evening air was cool, but it had lost its winter’s sharpness. She dropped the logbook off in her room, and then went to dinner, choosing a small bistro on a side street that the concierge recommended. She ordered _soupe à l'oignon_ and a glass of red wine and took her time. 

It was late by the time she returned to her room. She was tired, but the logbook called. She settled herself at the desk and opened it, paging through it slowly. She had no idea what she was looking for, but she thought she would know it when she saw it. She read until her eyes started to feel gritty and her head hurt, and then she got ready for bed. But despite being overly tired from a long day of work and travel, she couldn’t fall asleep immediately, her brain continuing to worry at the problem like a dog with a bone. 

When she finally did fall asleep, she dreamed of Neal. She dreamed of seeing him on the street in front of her hotel and following him. She called his name, but he never turned around. She never saw his face at all, and yet in the dream, she was certain it was him. But she also knew she would never catch him. She would always be too late. 

***

The next morning, Sara appeared in Berger’s office with a very large cup of coffee acquired from the Starbucks between her hotel and the museum. He visibly sneered at it; she ignored him. As much as she’d have enjoyed a perfectly brewed cup from one of the many cafés she’d passed, this was a morning for quantity over quality. She also had a new plan. 

She had decided, after waking from her dream about Neal in the small hours of the morning, that while she couldn’t go through this investigation expecting to find Neal, it might not be the worst idea to use her knowledge of him to steer it. _What would Neal have done?_ she’d asked herself, and found it a surprisingly easy question to answer. He would have used his people skills. He’d have recruited someone on the inside to help him, if at all possible, and he would have made sure that person was well-paid and rewarded. Well enough rewarded, in fact, that he might be able to leave his job. 

“Have you had any security guards quit in the last couple of months?” she asked Berger, once they were past the _Good morning_ ’s and _I trust you slept well_ ’s.

Berger raised his eyebrows at her. “As a matter of fact we have. Only one, but even that is significant for us. As you might expect, positions with us are sought-after. There isn’t much turnover. Why do you ask?”

“I’d like his contact information,” Sara said, ignoring the question. “And if you can spare me the help, I’d like someone to go through the security logs and pull everything he logged.”

“That may be arranged,” Berger said. “I ask again: why?”

Sara seated herself across from him and crossed one leg over the other. “I was thinking about how someone might have done this. How someone I once knew might have done it. It seems to me that there may have been an inside man.”

Berger nodded. “That makes sense. Do you think the guard himself might have written the report?”

“I think it’s more likely that he was working with someone else, helping them gather information. I think that he might lead me to him.”

Berger frowned. “The person you once knew. Could it be him?”

“No,” Sara said shortly. “That isn’t possible. He’s dead.”

“I see,” Berger said. “Well, I can give you the former guard’s contact information as we have it. Will you be approaching him directly?”

Sara shook her head. “Not yet. I’ll keep my distance for now.”

By that afternoon, she was sitting in a rental car outside an apartment building in a nice Paris suburb. Jules Gagner had left his position as a security guard at the Louvre abruptly about a month earlier after nearly ten years of impeccable service. As far as Sara had been able to discover in the brief digging she’d done that morning, he hadn’t taken a new job. But by all evidence, he lived comfortably. 

She wasn’t sure if he was home or not. It was the middle of the day, after all. But experience had taught her that if she was patient, eventually he would show up. And though she had no real evidence that this was a lead, it _felt_ right in her gut in a way she’d learned to pay attention to.

It took a couple hours of patient watchfulness, but eventually a man who looked an awful lot like the photo Berger had given her emerged from the building. He set out on foot, rather than getting into a car, and Sara hastened to follow him. She should have probably worn different shoes for this, she reflected ruefully. 

For the next three days, Sara got a halfway decent tour of Paris, courtesy of Jules Gagner. He appeared to be living the life of a gentleman of leisure - much more leisure than a former security guard who was currently unemployed should be able to afford. He went to the cinema once, and spent hours sitting in a rotation of three different cafés, all within walking distance of his apartment. Sara usually found a spot at a different café nearby, where she could see him but he could see her only if he was looking. He didn’t seem to be. 

The weather was particularly fine, and Sara had to admit that this didn’t feel much like work. But as nice as it was, by the end of the second day, she was starting to worry that it wasn’t going to pay off. 

On the fourth morning, Sara followed Gagner to a nearby Metro stop, where he caught a train across the city. The break in routine intrigued her; even in just three days, she’d learned that Gagner was a creature of habit, and the fact that he was leaving his neighborhood had to mean something. In the morning rush, it was easy to avoid catching his attention, though less easy to avoid losing him in the crowd. She had a brief moment of panic when she emerged from the stairs onto the street and didn’t see him immediately, but then she spied him waiting at a traffic light. He crossed the street. She followed at a safe distance. 

It was then that she faltered. She had been so focused on keeping Gagner within her sights that she hadn’t been paying any attention at all to where they were. Everything else had faded into the background, but it snapped abruptly back into focus as she realized that he’d led her straight to the Place du Tertre in the Montmartre. Everywhere she looked there were artists and buskers, not to mention hordes of tourists. Sara hung onto her purse firmly and plunged into the crowd after Gagner. 

It was clear to Sara immediately that Gagner hadn’t come to the Place du Tertre simply to pass the morning; he weaved through the crowd with purpose, and Sara had to step quickly to keep up. She knew it looked suspicious; anyone with half an eye would know she was following him. But he didn’t look back once. 

He stopped at last in front of an artist’s stand with a particularly large crowd. He waited at the edge, not trying to push through to the front. Sara likewise hung back, pretending to examine the leather wallets at the stand next door. 

Even from this distance, she could understand why the stand had attracted so many people. There was a lot of art for sale in the Place du Tertre, much of it nothing but kitsch. But whoever had painted these had real skill. They were sentimental enough to sell, and the artist clearly knew what side his bread was buttered on, because there were more than a few Paris cityscapes. But they weren’t the normal ones. Many of them were devoid of people, but not in a way that rendered them more picturesque; rather, the lack of people gave the street scenes an air of abandonment. Others contained only a single, melancholic figure.

Eventually the crowd shifted. Gagner moved toward the front, and Sara glanced up, curious to see the artist. 

She froze, dropping the wallet she held from fingers that were suddenly nerveless. 

It was Neal. It was Neal, or someone so like him he could only be his twin. 

Sara stared, knowing that this was the least covert thing she could do, but simply unable to move. Neither Neal nor Gagner appeared to notice her, anyway; they spoke briefly, and Sara saw a packet of some sort - money, probably - exchange hands. Then Gagner left, vanishing into the crowd in the direction of the Metro Station, and Sara was left staring at Neal. 

“He is lovely, isn’t he?” the older woman selling wallets said in French to Sara with a smile. “I have a much easier time getting out of bed in the morning since he showed up, knowing that I’ll have him to admire all day.”

Sara managed a smile. “Yes, he’s very handsome. I’ll take this one,” she added, indicating one of the wallets she’d been perusing. It was soft, with leather like butter. She hadn’t meant to buy anything, but the transaction gave her a few seconds to pull herself together. Perhaps when she looked back, Neal would have vanished, or she would realize that the artist didn’t really resemble him as much as she’d thought at first glance. It was her mind playing tricks on her again, that was all.

But when she looked again, he was still there. He was chatting amiably with a customer, a young woman. _Of course_ , Sara thought dryly. The woman bought a small print from him, and he wrapped it and handed it to her in a bag. She gave him a coy smile as she stepped away, and he winked at her, making her laugh. 

If he’d seen Sara, he gave no sign of it. 

Sara almost turned and left. If it was Neal, then he had allowed them all to believe he was dead. Her amazement at finding him could not quite smother the blaze of anger she felt at that thought. But if it was Neal, then he was alive, and the chances she’d thought dead and buried with her were, in fact, alive and well and selling paintings in the Place du Tertre. It was a miracle of sorts, and Sara hadn’t had many of those in her life. It was a gift, just the sort of gift she’d never quite stopped hoping for with her sister. As angry as Sara knew she would be when she was no longer in shock, she could not bring herself to refuse it. 

“ _Bonjour_ ,” she said, drawing his attention. 

He’d had his head down, marking something down on a sheet of paper in front of him, but at the sound of her voice, it came up. His eyes widened as they met hers, and he went pale. 

“Your paintings are very beautiful,” she said in French as she stepped up to look at them more closely. “Very different from all the others.”

He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “ _Merci_.”

“Some of them make me very sad,” she said, picking up one of a woman sitting on a park bench. She wore a bright red dress Sara thought she recognized from her own wardrobe and carried a black umbrella. Sara could not have said why, but the picture filled her with a sense of loneliness and longing. “But they are still beautiful.”

“Not everything that is beautiful is also happy,” Neal said. His French was just as lovely as Sara had thought it would be; he had the barest hint of an American accent, but Sara would have bet that he was able to pass that off as having spent time overseas as a child. 

Sara nodded. She let her fingers trail across the tops of the canvases. One in particular struck her eye: a figure, a man this time, walking along the banks of the Seine. He was impressionistically blurry, but the silhouette of a fedora was unmistakable. “Some of these, it’s almost like the person in them is searching for something that’s been lost.”

The breath that Neal drew then was just the slightest bit shaky. “Or maybe they’re the ones who’ve become lost.”

“Maybe they are,” Sara agreed. “The question, of course, is whether they want to be found.”

Neal did not reply immediately. Sara prepared herself to walk away; after all, of the two of them, she was easier to find, if that was what he wanted. But then he spoke. “I think most people want to be found. I do.”

Sara let out a breath she hadn’t even been aware of holding and realized that her throat was tight and her eyes were starting to burn. “Good,” she said, switching into English. “I’m glad.”

Neal’s gaze took on a desperate edge as he looked back at her. A small knot of people had gathered near Neal’s paintings, and they were eyeing both of them oddly. Neal glanced at them and then back at Sara. “I, um, I have another job. I’m a sommelier at Café Moderne.”

“Are you?” she replied, trying not to sound as though she was about to burst into tears.

He nodded, then paused, uncharacteristically hesitant. “You should come by tonight. I’ll finish about eleven, but we’re pretty slow by nine-thirty.”

Sara nodded. “I’ll do that. I’ll - I’ll see you then.”

Walking away was the hardest thing she’d ever done. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d look back to find him gone. But when she paused at the edge of the crowd to glance back, one last time, he was still there, staring back at her, as though he was just as surprised to see her as she was to see him. 

***

Neal was decidedly distracted as he packed up his stand in the early evening. Business was still bustling, but he needed to catch the Metro across town to the job that actually paid his bills. Not that he did badly for himself with his paintings, but he didn’t do well enough to keep him in the lifestyle to which he was accustomed. He still pulled on his offshore account for the occasional rainy day, but he was mostly legally solvent. Peter would have been proud if he’d known. Might be proud soon. 

His days were long, but it helped that he enjoyed what he did. He liked selling paintings a few days a week and painting at home on the others. Customer service, even high-end customer service in one of Paris’s premier restaurants and wine bars, had its drawbacks. But he had always enjoyed good food and wine, and most nights it was barely a hardship at all. He’d met more than a few interesting people and had even sold a handful of paintings through his job as a sommelier for considerably more than he would have in the Place du Tertre. It wasn’t a bad life. It just wasn’t one that he’d ever envisioned for himself. 

And now. Sara. 

He’d known when he’d sent her the information about the Louvre that there was a distinct possibility she’d come looking. Part of him had _hoped_ , even as he’d done everything possible to cover his tracks. It was no longer actively dangerous for someone to find him; the last of the Panthers had been convicted and sentenced to life in prison a month ago. But Neal had still hesitated to reach out to anyone from his old life. Even before the Panthers, he’d been dangerous to know. His life in Paris was harmless, and any damage he’d done in New York was long since over and done with.He couldn’t help thinking that maybe it should stay that way.

But now the decision had been made for him. Somehow, he didn’t think Sara was going to be willing to lie to Peter. He didn’t even have the right to ask it of her. And if that was what he’d wanted, he should have taken the out she’d offered him. But he’d been weak, desperate for any connection with his former life. And if he’d really wanted to stay hidden, he wouldn’t have sent Sara the information at all. 

It was a Friday night, and Café Moderne was busy enough that he was able to forget everything for a couple hours. He worked a shift in the dining room before swapping with Gerard, who was manning the wine bar. On a night like tonight, Neal preferred the bar. It was busier, but it attracted a more varied crowd than the swanky dining room, and the customers were more likely to follow his suggestions. 

It was still busy when Sara came in, but there was a single spot at the bar open. She took it, and he slid the menu down to her before turning back to the American couple he’d been serving. “How do you like that Bourdeux?” he asked them. “I like how it kind of hits you slowly on the back of your tongue.”

“Mmm, yes,” the husband said. “Very complex.”

“A little too complex,” the wife said, setting the glass down in front of her husband. “Do you have anything a little lighter? Maybe a white?”

“I think I have just the thing,” Neal said, turning back to his collection. He pulled a slim bottle off the shelf. “This is an Alsatian Edelzwicker. It’s a nice summer wine.” He poured a sip in the bottom of clean glass and let her taste it. She hummed her approval and he poured her a full glass. “The Bourdeux for you?” he asked her husband. 

“Please,” he said. Neal poured his glass, topping it off with a deft twist of his wrist so the last few droplets wouldn’t run down the neck of the bottle. 

He turned back to Sara and found her watching him. “You have quite the list here,” she said, running her finger down it. “Our mutual friend would be impressed.”

“More impressed if it was my personal collection, which isn’t,” Neal replied. It hurt to think of Mozzie even more than it did to think of Peter. Peter had had a lot to keep him busy these last few months. “Do you know what you’d like?”

Sara shrugged. “ _You_ know what I like. Surprise me.”

That was a challenge. Sara had wide ranging tastes in wine, and the only thing Neal knew she didn’t like for certain were Chardonnays that tasted overwhelmingly of oak. The head sommelier at Café Moderne would’ve died before having something like that on his list, so Neal was left trying to figure out what she might be in the mood for. It was a warm day, the first one they’d had yet this spring, and she’d probably spent much of it out and about. He poured her a glass of the Edelzwicker and slid it across to her. “On the house,” he said, very quietly. 

“Thanks,” she said, giving him a small smile. She sipped. “Very good.”

“Thanks.” He tilted his head toward his other customers. “I have to get back.”

“I’ll be here,” she said, a little like a promise and a little like a threat. 

He was aware of her as he served the rest of his customers. She finished her glass, and he brought her a Pinot Noir he knew she would love. Finally the restaurant was quiet, and there were only a few people in the wine bar, lingering over the last few sips in the bottoms of their glasses. Then, as he did most nights, he poured himself a glass of whatever he happened to have open - tonight, a full-bodied Malbec that was perfect after breathing for a couple of hours. He pulled a stool up behind the counter and sat down with a sigh; he was used to being on his feet, but a day of selling paintings followed by an evening serving wine was a lot even for him. 

“Tired?” Sara said. 

“Yes,” Neal said honestly. “It’s a very different life from a desk job with the FBI.”

Sara nodded. She said nothing for a minute, and Neal sipped his wine. She had to be furious at him; he was lucky she hadn’t slapped him in the market that morning. But then he heard a small sound, so small he thought at first that he’d been imagining things. He looked at her just in time to see a single tear roll down her cheek. She wiped it away and looked up to meet his eyes. Her eyes were brimming. 

“I could kill you,” she said, very quietly. “I swear to God, Caffrey, you’ve made me angry before, but that’s nothing compared to this. Do you know what you did to me, to Peter, to Mozzie, to - to everyone? Do you have any idea?”

Neal sighed, shoulders slumping. “Yes, believe it or not. It wasn’t something I did lightly, or just because I wanted to run way. I can explain everything, but not here.”

“Where then? Because neither of us is going anywhere until I get answers.”

“My place, preferably,” Neal said. “But if you’d prefer we could go to your hotel room.” He didn’t add that he’d be checking for bugs if they did. He swept his place regularly, and his security system was top shelf. But a hotel room, where anyone could have been recently? That was something else altogether. 

Sara nodded minutely. “Your place.”

“Thanks,” Neal said. “Give me a few minutes to close out, all right?”

By the time he was done with his end-of-the-night routine, the last of the patrons had gone. He let himself and Sara out and locked the wine bar up behind him. “It isn’t far,” he said, leading down them down the street.

It was not a comfortable silence, but he didn’t deserve a comfortable silence after everything. He’d known that this would hit Sara hard; the two of them hadn’t been as close recently, but with her history, she wasn’t going to take his death easily. And finding him again had to stir things up, too. Not for the first time, he wondered if he should have let sleeping dogs lie. Too late now. No way out but through. 

His apartment was small, but nicely appointed. He’d taken it because he’d visited in the morning and the quality of the light had reminded him of June’s. It was perfect for painting during the day, and at night he could just barely see the lights of the Eiffel Tower. It wasn’t the view he’d dreamed of once, but it was enough. 

“This is nice,” Sara remarked, going over to the bank of windows. She stared out at the lights, arms crossed over her chest. “You always land on your feet, don’t you.”

Neal swallowed. “Sara. I’m sorry. I am so very sorry. Please believe me when I say I didn’t want to do it. But Peter must have told you about our last case. If I hadn’t done it, they could have come after you, after Moz, after Peter and El and the baby.”

“Neal.”

Neal blinked. “What?”

“The baby’s name. Is Neal.”

It was like being punched in the gut. Neal’s throat tightened painfully. “Oh,” he managed. 

Sara turned. “I know why you did it. But damn you, Caffrey. The grief was real. The pain was real. You did that.”

“I know,” he whispered. “If it helps, it hasn’t been easy for me. I miss you all, so much. I knew that if I sent you the information on the Louvre, you might trace it back to me, but I did it anyway. I wanted to see you again. I wanted you to know.”

Sara sighed. “I’m glad you did. Don’t ever think I’m not. And Peter will be, too, even if he’s mad at first.”

Neal hesitated. “You don’t think he might be better off not knowing?”

Sara stared at him. “ _What_?”

Neal looked away. “They have a lot to protect now, with the baby. I want to see him, I -” Neal’s voice cracked, embarrassingly. “I want to see him so badly. But maybe that’s just selfish.”

“Selfish or not, you have to tell him,” Sara said flatly. “Because I can’t lie to him about this. I can’t, and I won’t.”

Neal nodded. He’d known she’d say that. It was probably even the right answer. After a moment, Sara sighed. “You look tired.”

Neal gave her a half-smile. “You mean I look old.”

“A little,” she said, and reached out to touch the gray at his temples. “It suits you.”

“Thanks, I think,” he said. He gestured her toward the sofa, and she went to sit. “So. How did you find me?”

She shrugged. “I followed Jules Gagner.”

Neal grimaced. “He was the weak link in my plan.” He headed over to the small bar he had set up on a side table. They might as well get comfortable. “Wine or something stronger?”

“Something stronger,” Sara said, seating herself on the sofa. “What was your plan, exactly?”

Neal poured them both a scotch and soda, and handed hers to her before sitting down himself in the chair across from her. “The original plan was to steal something from the Louvre. Because it was there, and I could, and I had nothing left to lose.”

Sara nodded, as though she was entirely unsurprised, and sipped her drink. “So what happened?”

Neal leaned forward, elbows braced against his legs. “Truthfully? I just couldn’t.”

“Well, I think that report sent me proved you _could_ ,” Sara replied, with a spark of her usual humor. 

“Touché,” Neal said, leaning back, feeling a little more at ease. If she could tease him, she could probably forgive him. Someday. “I could have. But I kept - seeing Peter’s face. Every time I went to put plans in place, real plans, solid plans, I saw Peter making that face at me. The disappointed face, the _I thought so much better of you, Neal_ face. And I just couldn’t do it.”

Sara raised her eyebrow at him. “And so instead you sent me a report on the holes in the Louvre’s security.”

Neal shrugged. “I had the information. And if I could do it, it was only a matter of time before someone else did. I thought you’d know what to do with it.”

“I did,” Sara said. “I’m actually working with the head of the Louvre’s security while I’m here, doing some consulting for them as they patch things up.” She paused, sipped, then set her glass on the table. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

Neal blinked. “It’s not?”

“No.” She looked him in the eye. “Neal, I’m here to offer you a job.”

For a second, Neal was sure he’d heard her wrong. “A job?” he repeated. 

“A job,” she confirmed. “Winston Bosch wanted me to find out who sent me the information and, if at all possible, hire them as a security consultant for Sterling-Bosch. Now, granted, I really hadn’t expected it to be you, but nonetheless. The offer stands.”

“But,” Neal said, and stopped. 

Sara took pity on him after a few seconds and shifted to sit closer. “The work you sent me was outstanding,” she said. “Bosch was impressed. I was impressed. I think we could make good use of your talents, and you’d be well compensated in return.”

That was . . . tempting. He liked both his jobs, but he’d enjoyed the recon on the Louvre, too. “Would I stay in Paris? Or would I move to London? Or,” his voice caught, “New York?”

“That’s something we’d have to work out,” she said. “Also the fact that you’re legally dead, whatever name you’re living under here isn’t your real one, and you never actually finished your sentence. It’s going to be a real mess to sort all that out. But we will,” she added. “Between Peter and me, we will.” He nodded. She reached for her drink, and Neal took the opportunity to take a healthy swallow of his own. “Speaking of New York - I meant what I said earlier. You have to tell Peter. Soon.”

Neal nodded. “I know.”

“Does Mozzie know?”

He shook his head. “No. Neither of them could know.”

“You must’ve had help.”

“I paid people,” Neal said, looking down at the ice in her drink. “And June knew.”

Sara was quiet. “How did you do it?” she asked at last. 

It wasn’t a story Neal had told before. He told it now in as few words as possible. The gun, the vest, the poison. He skimmed over waking up in the body bag, but Sara’s mouth tightened anyway. 

She said nothing when he was done. Finally she downed the last of her drink and set it on the table. “You could have died for real.”

“I know,” Neal said in a low voice. “But it seemed worth it even if I did.”

Sara shook her head. Her eyes were suddenly very bright, and her voice, when she spoke, was choked with emotion. “Damn you, Caffrey. I don’t know whether to hit you or kiss you when you say things like that.”

Neal gave her a small smile. “Well, I know which one I’d prefer, even if it’s probably not the one I deserve.” She choked out a laugh. “But I don’t - I’m not looking for anything from you that you don’t want to give, but -”

“What?” she asked, looking up at him. Her mascara was running. 

Neal let out a long breath. In for a penny, he guessed. “Can I hug you?”

For a second, he thought she might refuse him. But then she nodded. He shifted over to the sofa, and her arms went around his neck. He held her tight, as tight as he wanted, and for her part, she didn’t seem inclined to let go. He tucked his face into her neck, breathing in the familiar smell of her perfume and her hair and the underlying scent that was all her. Emotion welled up in him: grief for the months he’d lost and the pain he’d caused; joy that she’d found him; fear about what the future might bring. He didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the tears soaking into the fabric of her shirt beneath his face. 

“I missed you,” he said thickly. 

“I missed you, too,” she replied, sounding pretty thick herself. 

“I love you,” he said. She went very still, and he pulled away just enough to look at her. “This never has to go anywhere. We never have to try again - believe me, I understand if you don’t want to or can’t. But I never said it before and I should have. I love you.”

He hadn’t expected her to say it back, and she didn’t. She did trace the features of his face with the tips of her fingers, eyes damp and wide with wonderment. “I’m glad I found you,” she said softly. 

“Me too,” he said. “I wasn’t sure I would be. But I am. I’m so glad.” He pulled her close again, and she went willingly. Her hand cupped the back of his head, while his cupped the back of her neck, and it was unclear who was comforting whom. 

At last, Sara pulled away. “I should go,” she said, with palpable reluctance.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I do,” she said. “Because this has been - it’s been amazing, and I’m half-afraid I’m going to wake up and it’ll all have been a dream, but I need some space. And I have things I have to do tomorrow.”

“I’ll meet you for dinner at your hotel,” Neal said. “I have the night off from the restaurant.” Or he would, once he sold his soul to one of his fellow sommeliers; Georges would cover for him, but Neal would be doing inventory and working holidays for the next six months. 

If he was there that long. 

Sara nodded. “Yes, let’s do that. I’m staying at the Marriot on the Champs-Élysées. But by the time you meet me, I want you to have put in motion whatever wheels need to turn for you to contact Peter, all right? And Mozzie, too. I’m not comfortable knowing when they don’t.”

“I’ll do it tonight,” Neal said. “I promise.”

“Good.” She looked at him again, long and hard this time, and then visibly tore herself away, standing up with her bag slung over her shoulder. “Good night, Neal.”

“Good night,” he said, seeing her to the door. He stood in the threshold, watching as she walked down the stairs to the foyer. She looked back once, took a deep breath as though steeling herself, and let herself out. 

Neal closed the door and leaned against it, breathing hard, as though he’d been running. Then he pushed himself away from it, pulling himself together. He’d made Sara a promise, and he wasn’t going to go back on it, even if the idea of contacting Peter filled him with at least as much trepidation as it did anticipation. 

***

The next day was surreal to say the least. Sara woke to a note on her nightstand that she’d left for herself. It said simply, _It was real_. The memories felt real enough, but she’d known she might doubt herself. If that hadn’t been enough, though, there was also a text message waiting for her on her phone from an unknown French number: _This is a good way to get ahold of me. I’ll see you at seven._

Knowing it was real and that she wasn’t going crazy was good. But it didn’t make the day less difficult. She’d have had to break off her surveillance on Jules Gagner one way or the other, because she had back-to-back meetings all day with the security team at the Louvre. Berger was going to want to know about her own progress, of course, and she wasn’t sure what to tell him. And then there was Bosch, who was going to want an update soon. He was harder, because he’d met Neal and wasn’t going to be fooled by a fake name. 

The Louvre’s team - and the outside firm they’d hired at Sara’s recommendation - had made good progress. Sara had some suggestions, based on similar security systems she’d seen, but overall she thought it was going well. She was pleased to see that many of Neal’s suggestions had been taken, and the team was finding ways to work around any that weren’t feasible for one reason or another. 

Berger said nothing to her about her own investigation until the very end of the day, when they were alone in his office. “And what about you?” he asked then. “Have you had any luck with the former security guard?”

“A bit, yes,” Sara said. “I’ve got a good, solid lead.”

“Good,” Berger said. “I’m very curious to meet the one who bested us - or could have, if he had wanted to.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sara said. “But I’m not sure that whoever it is will want to meet. They did send the information anonymously, after all.”

“Hmm,” Berger said, visibly skeptical. “Well, I want to meet him, for reasons I’m sure you understand. Keep me apprised.”

“I will,” Sara said, and escaped. 

After eight hours of French, her head ached. It was a little after five, which left her two hours before meeting Neal for dinner. She knew she should call Winston Bosch and check in; in fact, when she’d glanced at her email, there had been a message from him, asking for an update. But at the moment, she was the only person who knew that Neal Caffrey was alive. If Neal had done as she’d asked, that would soon change, and she couldn’t help but feel that Peter and Mozzie deserved to know before her boss did. But she didn’t think she’d have to keep Bosch waiting for long.

She was hot and tired and still headachey when she reached her room, so she decided to lie down for a while. She pulled the drapes and kicked off her shoes, but she’d no sooner laid down than her phone rang. She sighed, sat up, and reached for it. 

_Peter Burke._

Apparently, Neal moved fast. 

“Hi Peter,” she said. 

“Sara!” Peter said, sounding out of breath. “Sara, you’ll never guess - no, actually, you might, because it’s Neal, but I never thought, I never let myself think - sorry, El says I just need to tell you. Neal’s alive. I know it sounds crazy, but he sent me a sign, and it led me to a storage locker. It’s crazy, he’s crazy, and I might still kill him, but he’s alive and he’s in -”

“Paris,” Sara finished with him. 

Peter was silent. “You knew?” he said at last.

“No,” Sara said. “No more than you or Moz did. But I found him a little over twenty-four hours ago. It’s sort of a long story, which I will be happy to tell you when you get here. I assume you’re on your way?”

“Yeah, I am, but I couldn’t get a flight out for a few hours.” Peter fell quiet for a moment. “Is he all right?”

Sara smiled. “Yes, he is. You know Neal. He always lands on his feet.”

Peter chuckled ruefully. “Yes, he does.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “Sara -”

“Peter, whatever you want to ask me, you need to ask him when you get here,” Sara said firmly. “I’m sure there’s a lot you want to know, but for now - he’s alive, he’s here, and he’ll be here when you get in. I’ll make sure of it. Do you have a hotel booked?”

“I, uh, no, I don’t,” Peter admitted. “This has all happened very fast.”

“I’m staying at the Marriot on the Champs-Élysées. It’s only a single room, but you can at least drop your things here when you get in. We can sort everything else out afterward. I’ll tell the front desk to send you up.”

“It’s going to be pretty early,” Peter warned her. 

“It’s fine.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Peter cleared his throat. “You found him?”

“I did. He left me a trail of breadcrumbs, though.” Sara bit her lip briefly. “Just get here, Peter. And bring lots of baby pictures.”

Peter laughed weakly. “I will. See you soon, Sara.”

“See you soon,” she replied, and disconnected.

It was too late for a nap now, if she wanted to avoid feeling groggy, so she decided to shower instead. The hot water helped her headache, and by the time she got out she was feeling much more herself. She dressed to go out, spending perhaps more time than she should thinking about her lingerie. She didn’t know if she and Neal would end up back here or not, but it paid to be prepared. 

By the time Neal knocked, she was just putting the last touches on her make-up. She pressed her lips together to smooth her lipstick, took a single deep breath, and went to answer the door. 

The restaurant Neal took her to was well away from the bright lights of the main boulevards. Sara would never even have seen it if he hadn’t pointed it out to her. It wasn’t French at all - Neal said the last thing he wanted on his night off was more French food - but Spanish tapas. The owner called Neal “Bernhard” - not the same as the name Neal had used at the wine bar the night before - and kept a succession of tiny, delicious dishes coming. 

She said nothing about having talked to Peter until there was a lull in the food and the conversation. She waited until Neal finished pouring her a glass of wine, and then she said, “Peter called me. He’ll be in Paris by the morning.”

It was only because she was watching very carefully that she saw Neal’s tells: his eyes widened, his hand tightened on the stem of his wine glass, and he looked away. “Not surprising,” Neal said, after a beat of silence that was just a little too long. “Moz won’t be far behind him. Unless he’s too angry to come at all.”

“He won’t be,” Sara said, as gently as she knew how. Then, because Neal still didn’t look comforted, she reached over and laid her hand on his wrist. “He might be angry, but he won’t be so angry he won’t come.”

Neal nodded. He looked down at his food. “Did Peter sound angry?”

“No.” She sat back. “He sounded elated.”

Neal looked up quickly. “Really?”

Sara had to roll her eyes. “Yes, Neal, of course. His best friend is back from the dead, did you really think he wouldn’t be happy? He did also say he might still kill you, but I’m pretty sure he was joking.”

Neal managed a smile at that. “I knew he’d be happy, but I thought - his life is a lot less complicated without me in it. Yours, too. He and El have a baby now -”

“A baby they named after you,” Sara said, cutting him off. “I don’t know how much more clearly they could say it, Neal. They love you, and they’ve missed you terribly, and Peter is wise enough to know that when you get a second chance, you don’t spit in its face.” Neal nodded, relaxing just a little. “Now eat,” Sara said firmly, “because unless I’m mistaken, our waiter’s hovering with our next course.”

Neal was quiet for the rest of the meal. Sara let him be, aside from innocuous remarks about the food. The meal ended with a tiny, incredibly rich chocolate mousse that the two of them shared. Neal paid over her protests, and the two of them strolled back toward the lights of the Champs-Élysées. Sara hesitated briefly before taking Neal’s arm. Her self-preservation instincts were telling her to run, but what she had told Neal before about second chances was true. Sara hadn’t had a lot of second chances in her life with the people who mattered to her, but she and Neal seemed to keep getting them. Maybe this time, she thought, they’d get it right. 

They paused in front of her hotel. “So, I guess this is where I bid you good night,” Neal said, with a smile and a little more of the usual Caffrey _savoir faire_. 

Sara shrugged. “You can, if you want. Or you could come up.” Neal’s eyebrows rose, and Sara stepped closer. “You should come up,” she clarified, running her fingers down his lapel. “I want you to stay the night. Peter’s coming straight from the airport in the morning. The two of you can get breakfast while I go to work.”

Neal’s eyes closed briefly, then he opened them and looked at her seriously. “Sara, you don’t have to do this. I don’t deserve another chance with you.”

“Maybe you don’t,” Sara said, “but I think we do.” In her heels, she was almost the same height as he was, which had always been convenient at moments like these. She kissed his, a soft catch of her mouth over his. “I love you, too,” she murmured. “I didn’t know how much until I thought I’d lost you for good.” She pulled away to look at him; his eyes were shining. “Come up with me.”

Neal nodded. Sara took his hand in hers and pulled him inside. 

***

Neal had already been awake for an hour when Sara’s alarm went off the next morning. According to the flight details Peter had sent Sara, Peter’s plane landed at seven-thirty, which meant they could probably expect to see him at the hotel by eight-thirty. Unfortunately, Sara had an eight o’clock meeting at the Louvre, so she wouldn’t be there when Peter arrived. 

“It’ll be fine,” Sara told him as she got dressed. “Take Peter to breakfast somewhere nice. Or if he’s tired, order room service and stay here. Either way, just talk to each other, all right?”

“Easier said than done,” Neal said, raking a hand through his hair. “I don’t even know - what I am supposed to say?”

“Well, you might start with an apology, but don’t get stuck there,” Sara advised. “Tell him what you’ve been doing. Ask him about his son. I told him to bring lots of baby pictures.”

 _Baby pictures_. God, Peter was a father now. And he’d still dropped everything to come to Paris when he’d learned Neal was alive. 

“Maybe see what he thinks about you taking the job with Sterling-Bosch,” Sara added from the bathroom, where she was putting make-up on. 

“I’m pretty sure he’d find the idea of me doing insurance investigation and security consulting hilarious,” Neal said dryly, leaning in the threshold to the bathroom. 

Sara pursed her lips and met his eyes in the mirror. “I don’t think so. Ironic, perhaps, but not hilarious.”

Neal dropped his eyes. “Are you going to be upset if I don’t take the job?”

“No,” Sara said. Neal couldn’t help making a noise of disbelief, and Sara turned to face him, “Seriously, Neal. I won’t be upset. A little disappointed, perhaps, because I think you’d be great at it, but it would be complicated and maybe dangerous for you to take it, and I’d understand if you’d rather not.”

Neal sighed. “Peter’s going to want me to come back to New York.”

Sara shook her head. “I can’t speak for him, but I think Peter’s going to want you to do what you want to do. You’ve earned that right, Neal. And I think that as long as Peter can be in touch, he’ll be happy. At least,” Sara took a deep breath, “that’s how I feel, more or less. Now, disappear on us again,” she added, “and all bets are off.”

Her tone was light, but that didn’t fool Neal. “I won’t,” he said seriously. 

Sara met his eyes in the mirror. “Good.” 

Seeing her off at the door was a little surreal - a glimpse of a life he never really thought he’d have. But maybe he could have it, he reflected. Even if he didn’t take the job with Sterling-Bosch, maybe a life in London with Sara was something he could have, if that was what he wanted. 

The problem was that he really didn’t know what he wanted. And he wasn’t even sure what was actually possible. Neal Caffrey was legally dead. His identity in Paris was good enough to get by, but if anyone looked at it more than cursorily, it was pretty flimsy. And Winston Bosch wouldn’t be fooled by a fake passport and work papers. 

After Sara left, Neal showered and dressed, and then puttered around the room. He spread the bed up and ordered coffee from room service. Finally he forced himself to sit in the chair by the window with a book in his hands, even if he couldn’t concentrate well enough to read; he looked out the window instead, watching as the city came to life for the day. 

He was watching for Peter’s cab, but he missed it anyway. He was still looking for it when there was a knock at the door. Neal dropped his book and stood up, his stomach suddenly a mess of butterflies. What if Sara was wrong? What if Peter _was_ angry? God knew he deserved a punch in the mouth far more than a hug for the pain he’d caused. Neal thought he could deal with that, though, if only Peter forgave him afterward. 

There was no way to find out but to open the door. _Start with ‘hello,’_ he told himself, and went to answer. 

The second he saw Peter, the words died in his throat. He wasn’t the only one who looked older, Neal thought. Peter had aged in the last year, too. He clearly hadn’t expected to find Neal there, because for several long seconds, the two of them simply stared at each other. 

“Hi,” Neal finally forced out.

“ _Neal_ ,” Peter said, dropping his bag. Neal startled back a step, but Peter followed and pulled him into his arms. Neal remembered being held like this before, when Peter had found him on Cape Verde. But if anything, Peter held him harder and longer this time, as though he truly didn’t want to let him go. “Oh God, I could -”

“Kill me, yeah, I know, there’s some of that going around.” It was easier to joke now, when Neal knew Peter wasn’t going to punch him. He hadn’t really thought he would, but he also hadn’t ruled it out. 

Peter gave a watery laugh. “I bet. Oh God, Neal. I’ve missed you.”

Neal pressed his forehead briefly into Peter’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you, too. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to do it, I just didn’t see any other way.”

Peter pulled away and looked at him. He shook his head. “What’s done is done. The last year has been hell, and I could be mad, but I just - I don’t want to ruin this.” 

Neal swallowed and nodded, inexpressibly relieved. “You hungry? Sara’s got meetings this morning. She’ll meet us later, but she suggested we get breakfast in the meantime.”

“Breakfast sounds good,” Peter said. “Just let me change my clothes so I don’t smell quite as much like airplane air.”

The hotel restaurant was still serving breakfast. They could have gone out and found someplace more interesting, but Peter looked tired and Neal found that he wanted to talk more than anything else. They got a table by the window, and Neal ordered an assorted bread basket and coffee for them both. 

“So,” Neal said, once the waiter had brought their basket of bread and left again. “Congratulations.”

Peter smiled. “You want to see pictures?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Neal said instantly. He hadn’t thought to ask Sara for any, and she hadn’t offered. But this was better. 

Peter pulled out his phone and offered it to Neal. “Almost all the photos on there are of him. I vaguely recall that I used to take pictures of other things, but these days it’s all him.”

Neal smiled, flicking slowly through the photos. Neal Burke was a beautiful child, all dark hair and big, dark eyes. Neal could see a lot of both his parents in him. El was particularly prominent in his smile, but when he was serious, he was all Peter. He flicked through them until he got to the very first, of a tiny, red faced, crying bundle being placed in El’s arms. She looked exhausted but triumphant, and Neal felt a pang of loss so sharp it made his breath hitch.

“Neal?” Peter said. 

Neal handed the phone back to him. “Sorry. I just - I should have been there.”

Peter looked down at his phone and saw the photo Neal had stopped on. “I wish you had been. I went out to tell my parents and El’s parents that they had a grandson, and I swear - for a second, I saw you in the waiting room. And then I remembered.”

He was never going to get that moment back, Neal realized. He’d only been gone a year; not so long in the grand scheme of things. But he’d missed a lot, and he was never getting any of that time back. Nothing he did was going to make up for not being there when Peter and El’s son was born. 

It was a minute or two before Neal thought he could speak again. “Sara told me what you named him,” he said at last. 

Peter looked down. “El wanted to. I didn’t, for a long time. It felt - it felt like it was too much history to saddle him with. I didn’t want a replacement for you, and I never wanted him to feel like he was. But then the time came and it just . . . felt right.”

Neal nodded. “So I guess - I guess you never suspected.”

“Not until I got the wine bottle,” Peter said. His mouth twisted wryly. “I can’t believe Sara found you.”

“Did she tell you how?” Neal asked. 

“Just that you’d left breadcrumbs.”

“Not on purpose,” Neal said, then paused. “Well. I knew there was a good chance she’d come looking. I think - I told myself I’d done what I could to cover my tracks, but I think I knew that she was too good for me to really fool.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Cover your tracks? Neal . . .”

“Not like that,” Neal said quickly. “In fact, it’s the opposite of that.” Peter’s eyebrows stayed up. Neal took a deep breath and launched into the story: how he’d started out casing the Louvre but in the end just couldn’t do it; how he’d realized that if he could figure out how, someone else could, too; how he’d sent the information to Sara in London, because he thought she’d know what to do with it; and, finally, how she’d found him two days earlier in the Place du Tertre.

“Wow,” Peter said when he’d finished. “You really have changed.”

“You don’t need to sound quite so surprised,” Neal said, a little stung. 

Peter frowned at him. “Neal, you just admitted that you started off casing the Louvre.”

“Yeah, but - okay, fine,” Neal conceded. “Well, I have. I did.”

“I know,” Peter said, softly, fondly. 

Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Neal took a croissant out of the bread basket and broke it open. It flaked perfectly. Peter took his cue and reached for a _pain de chocolat._

“So, you and Sara,” Peter said at last. 

Neal had to smile at that. Peter had always liked him with Sara. “Maybe. I don’t know. Honestly, I thought she’d be a lot less willing to forgive me than you would be.” He hesitated, wondering how much he wanted to tell Peter. “She offered me a job with Sterling-Bosch. Security consultation.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure I’m going to to take it. It’d be complicated. What with being legally dead and all.”

“Yeah,” Peter said. “We could probably do something about that, if you wanted to, but your legal status would be iffy, to say the least.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me to stay dead?”

Peter shook his head. “I’m not telling you anything, Neal. This is your life. If you want to resurrect Neal Caffrey and come back to New York, I’ll help you, and we’ll make sure you get the best legal counsel available. If you want to stay here, under whatever name you’re using, and live the life you’ve been living, that’s fine, too. As long as I know you’re out there - as long as I can _see you_ , even if it’s only once or twice a year -” Peter’s voice cracked, and he had to pause and clear his throat. “Then I’m fine.”

Neal looked down at his plate. “That’s what Sara said you’d say.”

“Sara’s a smart woman.”

“She is.” Neal looked outside, at the world passing by. “I’m glad she found me.”

He startled at the touch of Peter’s hand on the back of his. He looked back. Peter met his eyes, while his hand moved to cover Neal’s where it lay on the table. “Me too.”

***

Sara’s morning was filled with meetings, but she was able to get away at lunch simply by ducking into the women’s room to avoid Berger. She would have to talk to him eventually, she knew, but she hoped to put the conversation off a while longer. From the beginning, he’d insisted he wanted to meet - or at least know the identity of - the person who’d sent the security report; she wasn’t sure how easily he would take _no_ for an answer. And she was pretty sure that for Neal’s safety, that was what the answer would have to be. 

She was also pretty sure that the answer to her own question was going to be no, as well. But that was all right. Neal was - well, Sara wasn’t quite sure that he was happy here, not yet. But maybe he could be, now that the people who mattered to him knew. London and Paris weren’t so far apart, and Sara liked to travel. 

Peter and Neal were waiting for her in a café a few blocks from the Louvre. There were bags under Peter’s eyes, and lines that hadn’t been there at the funeral a year earlier. But he was beaming. And Neal - Neal looked happier than Sara had seen him since she’d found him. Sara had been struck when she’d seen him by how much older he looked, but those extra years had completely dropped away. If he had hurt her and Peter and Elizabeth and Mozzie, then he had not done so without considerable cost to himself. 

And in that moment, she forgave him. 

They spotted her only a split second later. Neal stood up to greet her, kissing her lightly on the lips. Peter hugged her. “Thank you,” Peter whispered, just for her. 

“It was my pleasure,” Sara whispered back, and patted him on the back. 

The restaurant was crowded enough that they kept the conversation light and inconsequential: just three old friends catching up. Peter passed Sara his phone with pictures of little Neal on it, and Sara made the appropriate noises. But it was Neal who was clearly greedy for them. He must have seen them already that morning, but he spent a good ten minutes flipping through them again, while Sara and Peter talked about a case that Peter had worked recently. 

After lunch, they took a walk along the Seine. It was overcast, with rain threatening, so it was less crowded than usual. One of the bridges that spanned the water happened to be deserted, and they stopped in the middle of it. Sara leaned against the railing, watching the brown water of the river. Neal leaned next to her, with Peter on his other side. 

“I can’t come back to New York,” Neal said at last. Peter nodded, apparently unsurprised. “Maybe in a few years, but not now. And I don’t think I should take the Sterling-Bosch job, either.”

Sara sighed. “It’s probably for the best,” she said, leaning into his side. “If you change your mind, the offer stands. Are you going to stay here, then?”

“I think so,” Neal said. “I like what I’m doing. For now, it’s enough. Maybe in a few years, things will be different. But for now,” he sighed, “I think Neal Caffrey has to stay dead.”

“So when you say you can’t come back to New York,” Peter said slowly, “you mean not even for a visit.”

Neal shook his head. “You know how New York is, Peter. The city’s too small, and too many people know me there. But that doesn’t mean we won’t see each other.”

Peter nodded. “El keeps bugging me to take her to the Bahamas. Not sure how it’ll be with a baby in tow, but I think we might find out. Maybe in September.”

“I’ve never been to the Bahamas,” Neal said. 

“Me neither, actually,” Sara said. 

“Well, then,” Peter said, looking pleased, “it’s a date. El will be thrilled.”

“How long can you stay?” Sara asked him. 

“Not long,” Peter said, sounding regretful. “I have a flight home in two days. Not even enough time to get over the jet-lag.”

“Long enough to see a bit of Paris with an expert guide,” Neal said. He slid his right arm around Sara’s waist and his left arm across Peter’s shoulders. “Come on. Let’s make the most of it.”

Sara glanced across Neal and caught a moment of unguarded expression on Peter’s face. She saw there her own feelings reflected back: disbelief, joy, regret, and perhaps just the smallest bit of fear that this wasn’t real, that Neal might disappear again. But it was hard to be afraid with Neal warm and real against her side, and she wasn’t going to let herself be ruled by that fear. Not now. Not ever again. 

_Fin._


End file.
